The Sedalia weekly bazoo. [volume] (Sedalia, Mo.) 187?-1904, 1887-11-22

consciousness.
"Good Godm exclaimed he whom
she had addressed as Victor, and who
had first rushed to his assistance, she
has bitten the glass through in his pas
sion and / fear some of the crystal ha.
lodged in his throat"
In month he could speak. and tina.
was all. He would never sing again.
1t was showing outside, and he paced
/ his room modify. He had never
dreamed of life removed from riches
and had made no provision for such a
position as that in which he was placed.
The organ, of course, he was still mas
ter of, and to this he owed the avoid
ance of absolute poverty. Friends he
had none; they had all deserted him
within a week of his mighty loss.
at was dream" he murmured, I'M
consciously quoting from one Of
his favorite songs. al was blind,
and yet l should have been fool to
open my eyes. Oh, Godr" he added.
passionately, cit is too bitter. could
have lost her. but my voice-can live
and be what 1 amp No, by heavens,
will not! shall end tonight They
shaii see that value life less than they
value me in my misery"
He drew a tiny pistol from dainty
case and handled it carefully. This
shall set me free, but, first-first / will
60 for an instant back to the past and
to Genevicve."
He placed the pistol carefully upon
the case of the miniature organ, an ex-
quisite instrument, the one relic of his
life of triumph that he had declined to
part with. He seated himself before it
and passed his hands over the keys.
1t is the "good-by" that he plays.
and the old sweet measure for the mo-
ment lulls to rest in him all that
is despairing and bitter. The
uor kunaana gives out the
air with plaintive sweetness
that brings back all the food of memo
ries of things that after tonight and
forever are to be silenced.
1t is ended. The last lingering chord
has died away. Mechanically. with
eyes half-closed and smile upon his
face, he arises and lifts the pistol from
its resting place. "Ah. true friend"
he murmurs. do your work well, and
u
The point of the weapon is at his
forehead. But he is gazing into the
mirror over the mantel-piece, and with
strange fascination perceives the
door open and slight. yelled woman
enters. A moments hesitation. and
the pistol is hidden in the pocket of his
loose velvet lounging jacket.
He knows her at a glance. Stay"
he says softly, raising his hand with
courteously deprecating gesture, IL am
a thing unworthy of your compassion;
/ do not deserve it, and do not seek
it But see"-and with bound he is
on his knee at her side, pressing the
hem of her dress to his lips in rever-
ence.
The veil is thrown back and
she speaks: Guy" she whispers.
"they are dead. my father and sister,
and / am alone. They said in the
newspaper that you too were alone
that they had all deserted you. Per-
haps / did not come SO much to offer
compassion as to seek it. And oh.
Guy"-her voice sinking into a Won
drous tenderness-''it said, in the pa
per that when they thought you were
dying and the doctors came to look
at your poor wounded throat-that-
that my little locket with the lock of
hair that you asked me for, was upon
your breast, and that when you lay
in that terrible fever you called and
called and called for GeneUieUe."
"Can you trust me, crippled, voice
less as amp" he asks breathlessly. 'Is
it possible?"
Most things are possible to woman
who loves. WERE ST.. CYRLE.